Psychiatric Help?
by elizanicolequinzi
Summary: Why would anyone live with an insane man? Maybe because he is nessesary...
1. Psychiatric help

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters that I mention or allude to in this story  
  
Psychiatric Help?  
  
The man wandered casually into the doctors office and lay down on the correct position on the lounge, just enough to the left that it was easy for the doctor to see him, but hard for the patient to see the doctor. He had bright white hair and scars wherever you cared to look. The doctor looked at him nervously. It was a well known fact that this patient had an appointment exactly once a month at exactly the same day and time, and that for all accounts he was a model patient. However, nobody wanted his case. He had been right through the staff at this clinic, and none of the psychiatrists would touch him with a ten foot pole. The only reason that the doctor was currently in the room was because he was new and some of the older doctors believed in trials by fire.  
  
"Good Morning" remarked the doctor in his almost breathy professional tone. His Instructors had remarked on his tone, had called it perfect for his profession. It made them want to talk they said, to tell him all of the intimate secrets they had. The Doctor had recoiled at the idea of his instructors intimate secrets but had accepted the praise gladly. After all he was a wonderful doctor. Top in his class. He would have this recalient patient under control in no time. Really, it wasn't the older doctors' fault. They simply had not had the up to date training that he had received. He could pity them really.  
  
The doctor turned to the patient.   
  
"So." He slid out in his most mellow and breathy professional tone "How are we today" This statement was not a question. He knew how the patient was. He was insane. Totally crackers. It was really just a starting point; he neither wanted nor required an answer. Unfortunately for his professional composure, he got one.  
  
"We?"  
  
"Ah, yes" the doctor faltered "ass in the communal 'we' that is used in the doctors' profession…" He trailed off as pale golden eyes encased in dead white skin regarded him with the sort of lethal concentration that is usually used most often by large bird of prey that have found something small and scurrying on the ground that will shortly be their dinner.  
  
"Communal?"  
  
The patients' tone of voice had lowered an octave, and where it had been a light tenor before, it has now dropped into a note range that could only really be termed as threatening.   
  
"Umm, yes, communal…as in all of the patients that those of us who are doctors swore on the bible to help…" The doctor trailed off again receiving the strange and uncomfortable feeling that with his last statement had merely dropped himself further into a dark and dangerous hole, which was going to be a whole lot more difficult to get out of than it had been to get in.  
  
"Bible?"  
  
The voice had deepened again and had an uncomfortable rasp, as if the mere saying of the word he had just uttered had hurt him deeply somewhere inside his twisted psyche. The patient turned his head further to the side so that he could look the doctor up and down. The Doctor had the horrible felling that the patient knew a lot about hurting people, and that the patient had just added his name to the list of people he would like to hurt in the near future. He tried again:  
  
"Yes, the Bible!" he squeaked brightly, completely forgetting to mellow and breathy-ise his voice. Without it his voice was unattractive, the kind of person you wouldn't enjoy talking to on the phone.  
  
"When we become doctors we swear an oath to God and man on the Bible…" The doctor suddenly had a niggly feeling he had just said something very, very wrong as the Patient sat up and turned to look at him fully, pinning him back in his chair with a gaze so purely incensed, the doctor could have sworn that he could see red and orange flames dancing deep in his black pupils. The patients demeanor had changed from annoyed passive to outright threatening and his face was tensed into a considering frown. The frown seemed to be considering how quickly the Doctor could be sent into the realm of death.  
  
"God?"  
  
The doctor was attempting to clamber backwards over his squashy and comfortable lounge chair to get away from his patient who was leaning forward from his hard and uncomfortable couch.   
  
"Yes, God! You know… Religion, priests, nuns, worshiping all that jazz. Belief and faith, man!" The patients eyes had narrowed more at each word of the doctor's litany and he was now regarding the doctor through mere slits with the sort of expression the would not have gone astray on Hannibal Lecter   
  
"Faith?"   
  
The doctor was sweating profusely. He was trained…patients weren't supposed to scare him, he knew how to deal with them…fix them. His mental litany was not dispersing the heavy feeling of doom that was emanating from the pale skinned man that was on the couch before him and the doctor was highly aware that he was the other person in the room. If the man exploded he would explode at him. He would hurt him. He would kill HIM. The person who would never see his parents again or kiss his girlfriend or even eat ice-cream. That was HIM! The patient moved on the couch. The doctor regarded the man for a few second then the scream that was resounding in his head broke through the mental barriers and echoed around the grey room.  
  
"Pleasedon'thurtmekillmemarkme! LEAVE ME ALONE! LEAVE ME ALONE! LEAVE ME…he trailed off into a disconsolate wail then started crying in earnest. The patient, who had merely been readjusting his position, stared down at him for a few moments then shrugged, walking out of the room. He stopped at the front desk where a tall dark haired man with glasses was standing, speaking to the receptionist in Japanese with a sight undertone of an American accent.  
  
"Do you want him at the same time next week?" The tall man asked, totally ignoring both the patient and the screams that were emanating from the consulting room he had just exited. The receptionist paled, but was saved by the doctor who ran the clinic who had walked out of his office to field this very question.  
  
"We are very sorry, but at this time, we do not believe that we can successfully treat your friend with the optimum results. I do believe, however that a transfer to the Imbrito Clinic may be beneficial. You know the one, its right over on the other side of town…" 


	2. for the insane one

I don't own Weiss, I don't own Schwartz, and I don't own anything else I allude to… In fact I don't even know if I own myself…strange little voices in my head….hmmm…  
  
PS: Thank you to my reviewers! You know who you are! :)   
  
PPS: Anyone feel like Beta-ing? I don't think that it is too bad, but I am sure I miss some things...  
  
Psychiatric Help?  
  
The carer sighed and regarded the white haired man that was sitting opposite him in the car. Another Clinic was refusing to allow them back. His list of places that hadn't heard of his charge and of his strange ways was becoming ever shorter. If this kept up they would have to change locations again. He didn't appreciate that thought. It was always so disturbing for them all, particularly the youngest. He always detested moving schools.  
  
The tall one sighed again and before reassessing the road in front of him. He knew the correct way to and from the clinic without having to even look at the road, that was the sort of driver and indeed, sort of person he was. He had memorized the route form a road map before he had even brought the insane one to the clinic for the first time and he had also planned the fastest route to and from their residence that was possible. He did consider, however, that he had best keep an eye on the other people around him. He was sure none of them were as steadfast as he in their driving duties.  
  
He sighed again, contemplating the problem of his charge, his problem, in his mind. Really, he didn't understand why his employers insisted on his visiting the psychiatrists. Psychiatrists were for people who knew they were unwell, who knew that their problem was upsetting for the outside world. The insane one simply didn't care. If anything, he seemed to consider himself normal. It was the rest of the world that wasn't cooperating with his ideal way of living.  
  
The white haired man was amusing himself by attempting to dismantle the car door using only his fingers. He currently was working at ripping off the soft leather upholstery that covered the metal structure to get at the workings of the door handle from the inside. He was making good headway and had a manically bemused look on his face as if he wasn't even sure if he knew why he was doing this. He didn't even seem to be aware of the other mans presence, but the carer knew that the insane one was well aware of him. He did, in fact have a fair amount of the insane one's attention at any given moment. The psychotic always watched carefully those who watched him.  
  
This was one of the things that made him so dangerous, mused the carer. He was able to concentrate on many things at one time; he was really a genius at multi-tasking, an expert at dividing his attention. There was only a few things that could totally rivet his attention and they were all…well… gory, to say the least. And if they were not gory, then they were just plain out strange. Take the obsession with blenders, for instance…  
  
That was probably why he did it so often, considered the carer. 'It' being the rampages and the orgies of complete destruction that the insane one so enjoyed indulging in. The thrill of pure focus for a brain that was a quagmire of differing personalities, objectives, morals and reasoning must be a unique feeling, to say the least. It was also the reason that the psychiatry wouldn't work. The man wished the insanity to continue. He needed it.   
  
They arrived at their residence, and the insane one climbed lithely from the vehicle to stretch up high as soon as his feet were properly aligned with the ground. He then relaxed down into a casually tense stance to await being let into the house. The carer opened the door using two keys and an oddly shaped electronic device. He knew that as soon as he opened the door, the insane one would go straight to him room. Not because he had any particular preference for his room as apposed to anywhere else in his house, but because he wanted to check on his only true possessions. His precious collection of knives, daggers, needles and pointains. Everything else around him wasn't truly his, the carer considered. He did not care about the clothes that they gave him or the bed where he slept. How could it be his if he didn't care?  
  
The carer walked from the garage into the kitchen.   
  
"So how was it this week?" piped up a nasal voice.  
  
"Did he manage to knock another one of those quacks for a six?"  
  
The carer merely regarded the man for a few moments then decided to ignore him as the menace to general society that he was and left the room to lock the door to the cell that was the insane one's quarters. And he was insane, medically, clinically, psychotically. He seemed to almost revel in the situation, in the freedoms that came into being when classed as little better than a dumb animal with useful homicidal tendencies. Of course, his state of mind meant that he lost a lot of respect in some ways and that he never gained many friends, but what would that matter to him? In his opinion 'friends' were people that you cut up more slowly because you appreciated their screams more than you would ordinary people.  
  
It was the carers considered opinion that the insane one enjoyed being criminally psychotic. He was in his true element and he was vamping it up. There were times when he could appear completely normal. Hell, there was time when he was completely normal. He could even have pure and proper conversations, and if you could keep him calm enough (usually with the help of drugs) his discourse and evidence on the sins of God was fascinating. If he cared to stop and write them down, he would have a dissertation worthy of a university Masters work. The carer knew that if the insane on wanted, it was with in his power to become 'well', to lead a 'normal existence'.  
  
The carer approached the cell and glanced in at the man that was sitting on the padded floor of the interior, carefully counting out the knives that were sitting in a box in front of him. The carer regarded him silently for a few moments, watching the graceful way in which his scarred and ragged fingers danced over every handle then caressed every blade. After observing for awhile with a strange sort of sadness in his heart the carer locked the door behind him and walked away.   
  
It was after all, he thought, all a matter of priorities.   
  
A/N: Could someone tell me if Farf really does have an obsession with the blender in the series, or is it just something that someone thought up, and everyone else has adopted because it semms so very farf-like? 


	3. The listener

The author doesn't own any of the characters or events mentioned. She does however own a backache, headache, arm ache and eyestrain. Damn late nights….  
  
Thank you to anyone who reviewed or has been following this story. I am back to being amusing! (I think…)  
  
A listener…  
  
The insane man moved through the kitchen at a fast clip, moving straight towards his personal space. He always did that, considered the telepath. He almost seemed frightened. (If you could ever consider the insane one frightened. Like not feeling pain, his ability to recognize the feeling of fear also seemed to be muted. He did have a point though. Nothing could be done to him that wouldn't 'hurt god' and so torture would probably be enjoyable for him…maybe…)   
  
The telepath didn't know what the insane one was frightened of. He had never 'looked'. It wasn't that he was frightened of the psychopath. How could he be afraid of him? He had been there for the worst of the acts that had been committed by him, and in most cases he had been assisting in some way. If he was to be frightened by insane one, then he would have to be frightened of himself… Now there was a thought…But was it his? It was difficult to tell. It didn't sound like him, but you never could tell  
  
The listener returned to his contemplation of his house and teammate. He wasn't frightened of him. Or at least he wasn't frightened that his thoughts would be to disgusting to handle (he had seen more gore than he had needed to in his life. After a while even the vilest acts became blasé) nor was he frightened that his chaotic thought streams would cause him pain. He had been trained to withstand a remarkable amount of pain by some very ruthless instructors, who hadn't cared how they had inflicted it, mentally or physically.   
  
Pain was not the problem with the insane one, considered the listener. Rather it was his seductiveness. As from the first moment that the telepath had met and attempted to scan the insane ones mind, he was amazed at how tranquil the man seemed on the surface, but with so much brightness flashing beneath the surface. There were so many different paths and trails of intelligence to follow. The listener could immerse himself into the insane ones' mind forever if he let himself. His strange ways of musing were addictive and his mental depths were unplumbed. Listening to him was a buzz and if you let yourself fully into his mind, the listener was uncertain if even he could get back out.  
  
The listener knew he would never have to worry about telepaths while the insane one was around. The man was a walking mind trap for people with his talent…He was fairly sure that he had mind wiped at least one of the all powerful's eavesdroppers. They had come after him for that one, and had submitted him to a barrage of new tests, to try and figure out how he had done it. They hadn't had much success for some reason. The listener smirked. It did the all powerful good to think that he could do things like that to them. It scared them. It kept the team safe.  
  
In many ways the insane one did a lot to keep them safe too. As well as some purely unconscious things, like the mind trap, and the unusually comforting things, like being able to cook beautifully (so long as you checked his ingredients before he started) there were the strange things he did in the name of the team. Like his rampages. The Listener 'heh'-ed softly to himself making a slight face. It was hard to imagine that having a person around that like to randomly kill people would be comforting. It was possible however. The listener had remembered when he had given into the temptation to know more about the man who felt no pain. He could not use his usual method on the insane one to discover what he wanted to know, so he had resorted to secondhand knowledge and had hightailed it over to the all powerfuls headquarters to listen to the thoughts of the insane mans previous carers.  
  
Since the insane one had joined their team, his acts of violence towards outsiders had nearly doubled in number. The carers considered that it must be a reaction to being so constantly exposed to stimulation from the out side world, but the listener knew better. The Insane one was defending the team from something that the previous carers didn't even consider a threat: The intrusion of outsiders into their select group.   
  
The listener knew that in their own quiet way they were famous in their own organization. They were the most efficient set of killers that they had. There were many who had an ambition to be included in their small circle, with the idea that it would help them to be recognized by their superiors. The threat of a psychotic white-haired demon that didn't appreciate outsiders was quite good at keeping all but the most determined away, and the most determined usually left again too. Usually… There were a couple that hadn't been fast enough. The listener tried to look on the bright side. He liked the new hallway carpet!  
  
The insane one also helped to maintain their tenuous position with the all powerful. At any time it might be decided that they were too good. Not a help any longer, but a threat, to be disposed of as best as possible. The insane man was redressing that balance merely by being himself, after all, If they couldn't control one of their members, how could they be organized enough to be a threat? It was a compelling question, and one of the few that left their heads attached to their necks.  
  
The listener allowed himself to sample the edge of the insane ones mind, using him as his own personal trip-out drug. There was some thing to be said for teamwork, mused the listener. He wasn't sure what, but something. 


End file.
